Copenhagen Clippings Part 3

A sienna spray painting of a Rastafarian smoking weed, eyeballs rolled back in reverie, resting on a concrete slab
An emerald tangled forest labyrinth, laced with species so exotic to their weighty Victorian envelope they are suspended in stupor: yet, neatly installed in the heart of this nostalgia-drenched museum, no one would know how much they long to smash through the surface of their glass dome captor and reach for the stars
A car leading the green energy revolution, engine so silent it could be a heartbeat buried beneath a baby’s bosom
A panel van, boom box beating, parked upon the cobbled curb, occupants thrusting bottles of lolly water upon unquestioning passers by, who relish their gift of nothing
A poor man, lotus position, sat upon swaddling clothes, lost in conversation with his sleeping lab, pelt as shiny and black as a freshly polished patent leather shoe, rolls of skin know not the virtues of vanity
A small boy, but four, wriggling with laughter, he gently beckons his father, who bending down from his great height, an act worth waiting for (thinks the boy), finds himself at the receiving end of playful gleeful trickery when a chubby starfish hand shoots out, like a venus flytrap and tickles and tugs his under-chin with such gusto the boy might be the world’s greatest cow maid – boasting a hundred pails to the minute; with joy, the boy strips a cabanossi clean of its wrapper and chomps in between gleeful outbursts
A spinning metal tree decorated with reflections of a cherished monarchy, four by six inches, full colour, gloss, 360gsm, priceless
Centuries of wisdom sat upon great wide shoulders draped in soft Navajo moccasins and velveteen, resigned to busk for their bread, whispers of richness, bravery and pride spoken through pan pipes whose mellow tones spread a wistful humbling calm along main streets, back alleys and squares, over building tops, finally resting gently within a thousand hearts
Inflated rubber balloons, contorted into elongated creatures and critters, who, hugging steadfastly to their makeshift pole of a home, wolf whistle expectantly at young children skipping past, their life’s aspirations distilled down to but two fantasies – to be in the loving grip of a moist sugar dusted hand or to float freely amongst the clouds
A mother pig, petrified quite literally, as she suckles five hungry piglets – what sculptor would wish such a thing upon a gentle unassuming hog
An alfoil tin overflowing with pencil shavings topped off with cling film and barcoded sticker, no wait, not pencil shavings but scrapings of salted shrivelled skin of pig, oink, crunch, crackle, munch, the mum above is now, not stone but lunch
Men, painted neon, bones dissolved, skin turned to flaccid rubber, height compressed to 10mm (products of a long northern winter perchance?), flipping and flopping their merry way down a centenarian wall, children watching in raptures, the wall would soon be rid of this boisterous coloured rash, but summer’s here so wall’s must wait, masonry knows not to overstep the mark
A dwarf, spray-painted gold, flimsy plastic Viking hut, happy wrinkles, recesses so deep many a ray the sun has lost to them, he’s sat upon a box watching the passing crowds ebb and flow, ebb and flow, sometimes they leave a metal token or two in their wake, sometimes they stop and stare – through him but not at him, sometimes they cry, sometimes he does too
A Danish snail, shell so pretty perhaps Picasso lent down and dabbled on it as she migrated North
A girl learning that her grandma’s gone to a world between this and that, sleeping, will she wake?
A thick, scrubbed pink glass jar, gently warmed by a candle burning brightly within its tum
A stone, gnawed clean of its sweet plummy flesh and sat upon a butter-coloured paper post-it – remnants of a tree’s fruit re-united with that of its trunk
A black tiled roof, watching as rain runs in rivulets down its sun-aged back
A wish to see a cat
A blade of grass
A strand of hair
A wink